She Has Fake Degrees... #ShowMeTheSealSoWeKnowItsItsReal

Have you been to my office? If you have then you know there is a large paper medal on the wall because I got the MVP of Student Staff Training #Spring2015…and what else? A bunch of thank you cards and other pieces of celebratory paper. The piece(s) of paper(s) you expect to see aren’t there.

Yup. There are no degrees on my wall in my office. And in the span of my full-time professional career, they’ve never been on my wall because…

…them joints is fake, yo.

Let me explain *in my Kevin hart voice* …

In 2000 and 3 I graduated from the University of California at Los Angeles. Just in time to NOT have the terminator’s name on my degree #BlessGodInThisBuildingSaints. It was an exciting time. Let’s go back to Ackerman…

I was so happy! I called home. Well, prior to the exciting call home, I made a huge scene in Ackerman buying the diploma frame. Yea, I want that one at the top. Very top. Yes, the best one you got. I just graduated homey…you better believe this piece of paper is hanging in style. Hello…this is me? I need better than your best.

Then he rang it up. I didn’t have money for three weeks. Daddie actually had to send money from Texas for California groceries…because hungry. I was embarrassed that I even needed money for food – until that time, I was able to take care of all my financial needs that financial aid didn’t cover #BraidingHair.

Anyway, as I wasn’t saying, I called him. Mom answered. She was sooo happy for me. So much so, that she stated that I should Go to Kinko’s… Yeah, Make a copy… Yeah, Then send the original… *ummm…where is this going* …to her in Texas. That, if I ever wanted to come home ever again, I would need to do this. I obeyed. But she got the coldest side eye ever given in the game though…through the phone. Because I wanted to go home, because fried cabbage yall. Both degrees are on the wall in their home. And a whole heap of other awards and such. I know because this past week (or so) I hung them there #TheyMoved.

Have you seen the color copy version of your degree/seal on your degree from Kinkos? It's orange... It's not even the same orange all over the seal. Because the photocopier, and the lights, and physics! Bro, this joint is as believable as the current sitting united states president. Like, we know it’s real, but it looks fake AF. Exactly.

Why would I put this on my wall at work? So I haven’t. It’s just not a thing. And, of course, this is all my mother’s fault. What does she want with it anyway?

But, as time deals with most things I made my peace with it. As a new professional, I began to realize that though I work with many people, some of which have many degrees, they are quite dumb. AF, homey…dumb AF. I started to take solace in the empty walls. My brain isn’t empty, and I use coherent sentences. I have the innate ability to swirl the king’s English with slang and contemporary vernacular, that honestly…the degree didn’t teach me to do. My intellect is more than what that piece of paper says I know. So…I’m good.

But I wasn’t. At a student leadership retreat, I had to share a piece of me…because vulnerability can be an important part of your leadership. Yes, all those aforementioned reasons are the reasons why my degrees are on bookshelf in my office. I know that I am smart, but I don’t always occupy that space. I am sometimes very insecure about what I know, to the point that I probably give the appearance that I don’t know anything. Like this guy last week told me how the Plan B pill works. Aside from the fact that this is something as a woman I would probably know because vagina, I was a Physiological Sciences major. Though I don’t work in my major, I LOVE science, because three swirls, remember? But nobody would know that was my major, because bookshelf.

I regularly get the feeling that I didn’t earn my degrees. Because, Daddie. Dude is smart as heaven…and a little hell – he ever tell you what he did to that cat? He would be an awesome person to have on a trivia team because he knows about the oddest, craziest things, usually from personal experience. He remembers dates like you wouldn’t believe. Why do I know that I was born at 10:16pm on a Tuesday? One year he called me at exactly my birthday. To the minute, yall. He even factored in the time zones because that was CST that I was born in, but it was PST he was calling to...so he called...twice, so it was 8:16pm PST, then again at 10:16pm PST. Everything I know is because of him. What he didn’t teach me, he prepared me to learn. And every bit of knowledge I engaged him in, he expanded upon – for my good – for my name to be on those pieces of paper. How can I take credit for everything that HE did. Doesn’t really seem fair at all.

As we were driving around in my Daddie’s truck, I was talking to that lady about degrees hanging from the wall. How I sent the originals, but all my sisters punked out and sent copies. But why they get to come home when you told me I couldn’t? Sure, I get the wealthiest portion of the fried cabbage, but nothing else for my obedience!!!!!

She said, your Father wanted that degree. I just passed the message. Then she looked at me and shrugged like, so you mad or nah? I leaned over the driver’s seat in amazement. All of these years those degrees have been on the wall, he never revealed this. And because, although hard-headed, she is a good wife, she kept his secret. She kept it until I needed to know it.

Today, this very day, there are two odd looking degrees on the wall in my office. I am more proud of them than you could imagine.

I have exactly what I earned on my wall.

...and Daddie has exactly what he earned on his.

She doesn't do funerals...

I don’t do funerals.

It sort of sounds like the way people say they don’t do clubs. Or tofu. Or turkey bacon. You should never do turkey bacon. Mostly because it’s not a thing. But I digress…

I don’t do funerals. Which means I don’t do death. I have never known how to grieve. The first funeral I attended, that I can remember, I was 16 or 17 and it wasn’t even for someone I knew. Next time I heard about a death was my maternal grandmother. I was soon to earn my first college degree. And the first funeral I attended for a loved one was for a young man, though unrelated, tore a hole into my womb. I felt the place he was connected to me inside from which he did not gestate. I was a degree holding adult by then.

Every funeral after that? I had a set of car keys. I maybe lasted 10 to 20 minutes. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I said I don’t do funerals.

The whole thing is effed up if you ask me. After being born, I feel like you’ve paid all there is to be paid. But no, there’s more! You know it cost $300 to get the hole to put the casket in. Not dig the hole. Or pay the man to dig the hole. Or by the equipment to excavate the land. Bruh…$300 to have the rights to a hole…to pay for all those other things.

And if the hole cost that much, you can just imagine the full price tag. I see why Phaedra was trying to get in the funeral business. If I did funerals the way I do these races or shoe sales, I might maybe have a lucrative career. Seriously, this could be a thing if I could stomach it.

The whole pomp considering these circumstances is for the birds, yo. You walk the grieving family into the crowded (if people liked them) venue. You sit and listen to people talk about all the wonderful things that person did (if they did them) – that literally none of you will ever experience again. You realize all the things you maybe did/didn’t say or do. Everyone wants to touch you. Hug you. Console you. Be there for you when you fall out. Because everyone is waiting for you to lose your sh*t because hello – someone is dead. And you could be the lucky person to be there for them. #Season2Episode17 #WillAndGrace #KarenPlayedThem

Did I mention that when all this is happening there is a not-alive body in the same room? Because we need to have their remains in the room while we’re all breathing…because there’s enough air to have a something in there that no longer needs it. What else shall I render unto you Lord??

And the muther-effing-flowers. They are everywhere. And they are the dreary things. These un-alive things. These soon to be dead things. Just like the person in the front of the room. Who comes up with this stuff?? I promise I will haunt you for the remainder of you sad, pitiful, and tawdry life if you ever do any of this in my name. I. WILL. HAUNT. YOU. Even in your afterlife. You won’t even rest in ghostly peace. Because, yes…I am that petty.

Look, do me like Prince. When the purple one retreated back to the stars from whence he came, we didn’t even know. We were like, You know Prince passed away? Yea, girl, they buried him yesterday. How they get the body from one side of the country to the other that fast. I don’t know, but the headstone already up. Pictures from the Memorial on Spike Lee’s IG page, soooo? #WeFinishedAndWeDone How, sway? And it takes them like 3 to 5 business days to credit things back to my bank account? #ThisIsNotSiliconValley

Remember that? By the time we were able to process his passing, his earthly shell was literally already over all of us.

Give me this kind of love, if you say you love me. Actions. I feel like, there might be a funeral because some members of my family are hard-headed (ie: My mother). But at the funeral, yall should all be texting each other like, Yo, what time the party jumpin off? Do I have time to go change? They frying fish, right? And when it’s over, you should go up to my mother and say Mrs Marilyn, um, we gotta go change, but we’ll be over to the spot ready to turn up. Can you fry some pork-chops and make some cornbread and cabbage? Even if you don’t eat it, order it. Because, it’s a party and that’s what I would ask of her.

I don’t deserve a funeral. And not just because I don’t want one. But this is me people. ME. How many times have I done things that you were like, normal humans would be dead, but she’s one of the X-men, so I get it but not really? How. Many. Times?

Many, the times.

Aqui's is this great place that makes these drinks called swirls. They suggest that you have two only, because strong. Here’s the thing…they are absolutely correct in their assessment of the drinks that they make and serve daily. But here I am, a scientist and ish. I have had three swirls, on multiple occasions. The last time I had three, I had to dump the contents of my purse to figure out what the eff happened after the three swirls. This is not the life of a person who values or is attached to their said life. But here’s the thing…it’s not like people had to help me in and out of the car, or I was throwing up all over the place. I woke up in my home, in my bed, in my pajamas. All of my things were exactly where they should be. What were the contents of my purse you ask? ONE grain of rice, cookie crumbs, and a lip gloss from MAC. This is not normal. Also, that was not the last time I had three swirls.

I flew to Hawaii to run a Ragnar Relay Race (200 mile relay race) with 11 people I met in a Facebook group and on conference calls. I didn’t realize that this is a less than safe thing to do until I knocked on the door of the hotel room of all the strangers that are now my friends. My Angelica Rollerskates had to scare me into not running on my local creek trail because a felon escaped custody in my city. That news alone didn’t deter me from getting my daily run. I sampled (gulped) Hangar One vodka for the first time the night before the Pleasanton Double (10k – break – 5k). Every single state I have moved to, I did so, driving, alone. I have lived in Los Angeles, Conway (Arkansas), Murfreesboro (Tennessee), Hamilton (New York), and Norfolk (Virginia). Like Sandra Bland could not have been me. #ImBlessedYall #RealTalk

Is this the life of someone you should be crying about in a church? Seriously…put me in that $300 hole in Cedar Spring Cemetery as near to my Daddie as you can get me and turn the eff up. I expect nothing less than a spectacular event. Shut the township of Hooks, Texas down…then roll out to Dallas and do it all over again. Like at The Daiquiri Shoppe. You’re welcome.

You have to. Because, I’m no grief profiteer.

What’s a grief profiteer? Glad you wondered. Quite simply, it’s a person that seems to be there for you when you’re grieving and no other time. Because they are seen as being super supportive and helpful. They want to report to the world (social media) that they checked in with you, and that you’re doing however it is you’re doing and pass messages on behalf of you. It’s also the person that expounds upon their awful circumstances for the attention and whatever comes with it, because grief is now profitable, in a really horrific way. The problem? When you’re grieving, you can’t differentiate between the actual people who are human and the soul-less profiteers.

I won’t do either. Mostly because I don’t know how to do grief. I haven’t had anything to grieve, save my broken (for other reasons) heart, until these days. If I didn’t ask you to come to the court and help me run these drills, I’m definitely not about to call you when I lose the ‘ship. Cause Draymond has no chill and that Quickie shirt makes a bad hairline worse. #iWantOne #TheShirt #NotAbadHairline #GodSaveMyEdges

I don’t know how to do any of this because I never had to do this. When I began to perform some of my first born third duties, I realized I was way in over my head. I was speaking with my Auntie on that dirt road that got paved, and she said this family has been blessed with so many healthy years. But then we started dropping like flies…. #LordBlessUs

I realized she was right. I know, for certain, that having a mother and father who have loved every bit of my reckless life is blessing alone. Some people don’t know their parents, or siblings. To have every single Uncle and Aunt provide the same extension of love is abundance. My cousins are the brothers and sisters I never knew I needed. To have gone so long without wearing a black dress and ruffle socks to the church on days other than Sunday worship, bible study, or vacation bible school is overflow.

I did nothing to deserve such grace. Yet I got it anyway.

Looking at things that way, it seems kind of selfish of me to drown in sorrow, right? I have had soooooo much. Daddie would send me postcards in college from his school bus trips. Just to tell me that he loved me. Sent me text messages just the same – in Spanish. My friends were soooo jeals. How can I not thank God even in these things? Considering all these things?

Easy. Because I never had to. So I will need to learn from some of you. Like, how to talk about my feelings #ThatWasntNewsThough #YouKnowMyLife. Or accept the kindnesses many of you have attempted to bestow upon me. Or be vulnerable in ways that I can receive more blessing, abundance, and overflow. Because vulnerability? Yea, that’s kinda not a thing. At all. Ever. But sometimes on ice skates.

Last Wednesday, I had to reveal to someone this news. In my poorly thought out attempt to “return to my life” like none of this happened, it came up. Why? Because humans talk about their lives, especially if they’ve been away from home, not answering email, (receiving) or returning text messages for almost three weeks #UCLAandUCAmightWannaReThinkThosePapersTheyGaveMe #iAintGotItAll. Someone, not a best friend or a confident, but a normal-caring-present-human attempted to be there for me. After I spent most of the day and evening being there for him. And what did I do? Lose all of my sh*t #BecauseThreeSwirls #DoNotDoThis

When I figure out how to adult, I’m gonna be something special. When I figure out how to grieve, I will…probably…not tell you because I still would not have figured out how to talk about my feelings.

You laughed. But you agreed with me. Because, the truth makes you smile. #ThisIsMe #YouExpectThis

Denzel's Redemption #2GunsRevisited

…and with that Denzel, you’re redeemed. #ItsWasHerAllAlong #iapologize #InMyAnitaBakerVoice #rememberhersittinginthatchairtho

Remember when I told the internets about that time that I had a really dumb idea which included staying up hella late and watching 2 Guns? The night before the Double Road Race? Yea, that night.

A particular line in the movie stuck with me. Stung me. And it just so happened to be about that thing, that always seems to get me. Love. And all the feelings like it, right. Whatever they mean.

It's never what is seems, hunh?

She asked a simple question to a man who in kind honestly replied. With his intentions. Of everything he was, and was not, he really did mean to love her. How about that, right? He gets partial credit. #justlikeIwroteitmyself #ikindadid #royalties

I kinda sorta, actually stopped watching the movie at that moment. I mean, once you say a thing like that, there really isn’t anything else left to say. Or watch. Right?

Fast forward months later to me flipping the channels to what movie? 2 Mutha F’n Guns Yo! Right around the same place I stopped watching it. And it seems that time has reconciled my feelings for Denzel and the person responsible for writing that line long enough for curiosity to capture my attention.

And I saw the movie to the end. But before we got to the happy ending, Denzel and Paula are together once again. Well on the phone with each other. He finally knows the truth of it. How she deceived him. Set him up. Intentionally intended on HIS demise. She really meant to love him. But didn’t. #thedarkconofwoman

Lots of things happened to me in that moment. Did I really love him? Or did I just mean to? Was I the one masterminding the charade? The Puppeteer?  These are real questions, right? I mean, if we are going to objectively figure this thing :::::that has absolutely NO closure::::: out, we must consider more than one possibility. How else could have Dag & Mia’s murder beensolved? #thegirlthatplayedwithfire #OhLisbeth

But we know the answer. We know what the investigation will turn up. And there’s one piece of evidence missing that confirms that answer for you.

I was left with nothing. I had no back-up plan. I didn’t prepare for what I got. What I did prepare for never happened. Which is actually a proverb, or a quote or something I read in a Keep Calm book. What we worry about never happens. It’s always what we didn’t expect.

Now don’t go feeling all sorrowful for me. It’s actually terribly stupid to not plan for it – especially in these days and times. Geez, in days when the tenure of a marriage is documented in HOURS, you gotta believe that people will invoke their inner Keyshia Cole and change their mind.

This is where I mess up with heart affairs...and the things like them. I’m too unwilling to deceive (not in a bad way, more like a heart preservation kind of thing) and very willing to forgive, to let it go, to be Denzel on the other line.

Crazy part? When it comes to love, and the affairs like it, I never easily believe – I’m always a skeptic in the beginning. Once I’m convinced, I am persuaded like none other. I believe it. I believe you mean it. And that settles it. Of the things that have changed and/or evolved over time concerning me, this particular thing has not. And I am not sure that it will.

I am never going to figure chess out, but I like guns.

*face palm*

Denzel & I Are Breaking Up #NoooImNotReadyLawd

There was a time when Denzel Washington could say ANYTHING to me and I would pledge my allegiance to his sweat. Well, that was up until December 22, 2013. Who knew there would be one fictional response (even after he was Detective Alonzo Harris & Frank Lucas) that would change my unwavering allegiance to his body excrement?

I was watching 2 Guns when I should have been resting for the Pleasanton Double Road Race. In a scene, it happened:

her: Did you ever really love me?

him: I really meant to love you.

And, there came a few real tears. Ain’t that some sh*t? Try watching a movie, having a private emotional moment, and your friend sitting across from you on the couch. And all these years I have loved Denzel. Who knew this day would come?

...and that's what it means.

She asked an imaginary question that has been burning in my actual spirit for quite some time. A question that I have wanted to ask with a desperation only known to men traversing deserts in search for water and Alchemy. I want to know if he ever really loved me.

I could just ask. It’s not like I don’t have the phone number, email, address, or social media everything to do it. Damn technology – it would have been nice to have an excuse NOT to ask. I could ask, and then I would know. I would really know. But, something tells me his response is going to mirror Denzel’s line. And quite frankly, I have no time for what that might really do to me.

He pursued me. I think I could accept that response if he did not pursue me. With stealth like commitment he shot me down over foreign land #NoPassport #NoExtraditionTreaty #LoveLand. He got to know me and pursued in ways that compelled my heart to love him, especially his flaws. I loved his imperfections first…then I (im)perfectly loved him. I honestly love(d) him. And honestly believed he loved me.

He knew me. And not because I told him who I was…hell, I don’t always know who I am! He studied my non verbal responses, my awkward phone silence and impeccably worded text messages. He decoded my sad eyes, sad songs and sad smiles. I think that I could deal with that answer if he was absent in my sadness.

He wrote me. Well, there is indeed that. Like I need to explain to you what words mean to me. Or what I would or wouldn’t believe if it wasn’t written (or typed).

He gave to me. Without asking, requests or begging, he gave to me. Liberally. Willingly. Surprisingly. As I sit and think, much time passed before I ever asked anything of him – I mean I made requests but never in excess or seriously. I never intended for him to do anything for me that I wouldn’t actually do for myself. He gave to me anyway. On purpose. Most times before I could do it for myself. That response would make (im)perfect sense if he never gave me anything. But, he gave her sunflowers too, so I guess there isn’t much to the giving thing. (there is, but I’m feeling some kind of way right now)

And though I clearly don’t have this all figured out, the question remains. The answer does too… Maybe he honestly meant to. And maybe one day that will be okay. Just not today.

Welp.

Needless to say, I have not seen the end of 2 Guns.

Random Thought: Does 2 Chainz have 2 Guns? 

*don't ask me where that came from, that was my honest thought, and the original title of this post*

On Being Vulnerable... #IceSkatesRequired

Sometimes, I feel superhuman. Mostly because of what’s projected back to me about me. I think I’m a pretty sensitive, needy, softie. Don’t believe me? Watch me interact with my nieces, nephews or goddaughters. Or any kids for that matter. All that developmental stuff goes out the door. My singular priority becomes their smile. Seeing their cute lil’smile.

But, that’s not really who I am (to people). I’m Wonder(ous) Woman! I’m not afraid of anything. I can do everything. Tears? Tears are for suckas (not really, just making a point). And above all, I am not vulnerable.

Only, that’s probably what I am, mostly. Vulnerable. I’m the most fragile thing I know. Consistently in danger of breaking. Vulnerable just looks a little different on me. You might not see my cry. Or have an emotionally charged outburst. Or call you for closure. That’s never been me. Maybe I would be more emotionally balanced if I did those things, but, it’s not my style. So, the question becomes, when will you see my vulnerable?

Ice. Skating.

What person, clearly high on some illegal substance, invented this? I know how it happened. There was a group of them smoking said substance, eating cheetos, and acting like Introduction to Philosophy students discussing the meaning of motor oil and tooth picks. Someone was looking for a knife to spread some peanut butter on a piece of fried chicken skin because they eat all the same color foods together, and slipped and fell. Then they thought to themselves, “I bet I would have been able to keep my balance if I strapped this butter knife to my Timberland work boots.”

Yep. That’s the etymology of ice skating.

I had no plans to skate on ice. None. I attended this event to hang out with friends, have a few laughs, and watch other people fall down. Maybe get a picture or two of said “falling” and look cute in my winter scarf and gloves. Those were my goals.

How did I get on the ice? A challenge. All it takes is a competition. “Oh, so you scared?” … “Don’t tell me you can’t ice skate?!” …and the statement that had me in line requesting size 10’s: “You’re just gonna punk out, huh?”

Peer pressure is the last pair of Jessica Simpson heels you’ve been looking in store and online for, only to find…for full price. Of course I bought them.

#RealTears&Prayers

And I’m on the ice. Only, I don’t know how to ice skate at all. I have some rhythm (it’s genetic) but seeing that I have fallen down attempting to stand up, I didn’t get an A in balance. Balance happens to be the one skill needed to ice skate. Or ice shuffle. Or ice stand. Or just be physically out on the gottdamn ice whilst holding on to the side.

But I’m a competitor. So I fought through every inclination to get off the ice and find a seat in the bleachers huddled with the smarter people. How did I get around on the ice? I hate you asked. Well, I did a couple of laps holding on to the side. Waiting for little kids clearly practicing for the Ice Capades to pass, cringing at grown ups with "coverage" #ChrisRock falling down (Lord don’t let it be me!), and praying. Lots and lots of Dear Father God in Heaven’s were prayed that day.

Then my friend. A guy (stay with me, there’s always a guy) saw me probably praying and clearly searching (without movement on the ice) for the exit. About to give up. He held my hand and encouraged me around the ice. He was in awe that there was this thing, this particular activity that showed him a proverbial birth mark he never believed to be on my brown skin. Vulnerability. I was born vulnerable. Who knew? What’s more, was his reaction: Shock. It shocked him to see me that way. I’m Wonder(ous) Woman, remember? That's what he projects back to me.

There. Is. Nothing. Fun. About. This.

But he kinda liked it. #NoRingOnIt Me. Vulnerable.

Shortly thereafter, he saw me on a bench ready to hurl the first ice skate off my foot at someone.

I hope he got a screenshot of that. Of me, vulnerable. It ain’t happening again, boss.

Only, it’s absolutely happening again. It’s happening again this very Winter. This very December. Because the only thing worse than being born vulnerable, is being handed a challenge – and not accepting.